


In You I Hear A Song

by LavworthMyWay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Pining, Revelations, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, lots of hopeless pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22174663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LavworthMyWay/pseuds/LavworthMyWay
Summary: As a witcher, Geralt was completely aware of the cost of letting someone in. The downfall of being emotional for someone you might lose at the turn of a blade.And yet.Somewhere in his heart, there was a pocket of space, now occupied by none other than Jaskier.If only Destiny would just stop rubbing it in his face already, the sadistic bastard.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 64
Kudos: 1367





	In You I Hear A Song

As a witcher, Geralt was well-acquainted with certain scents.

The sharp coppery scent of blood, for one. That clung onto his skin and invaded his nostrils after every fight.

Then, the mild dewy scent of the earth below him. Just as familiar as the smell of blood, but slightly more pleasant.

And of course, the foul stench of fear. Sour like rotten flesh and stale like musty wood.

Geralt was used to the stink of fear reeking off humans whenever they spot him. He had grown used to their uneasy horror at this point, letting the dirty scowls and barely restrained sneers roll off his back. He had to be. A witcher had more chances of making love to a Kikimora than receiving appreciation from humans.

But his heart was traitorously soft. He would yield to his emotions before he realised when by the time he did, it was too late.

He would never forget that day in Blaviken, when Marilka had looked him in the eye, her small face contorted with aggrieved loathing. The same sweet face that had stared up at him with carefree, cheeky curiosity.

_“Don’t ever come back.”_

The ache in his chest tore him up from the inside. It was not inflicted by any physical attack, and yet strangely it hurt more than an open gash.

Geralt never forgot the way his chest had lurched and twisted when those words fell on his ears.

He still dreamt of it. Of resentful Marilka. Of Renfri, who lay lifelessly in her pool of blood. Staring up at him in betrayed accusation.

Such was the cost of letting someone in.

But somehow.

 _And_ somehow.

Somewhere in his heart, there was a pocket space that had been carved out and was now occupied by none other than Jaskier.

And that was another scent Geralt had now grown to be familiar with.

Jaskier smelt of the wood from Filavandrel’s lute - Jaskier's one true love that he treasured more than his own life. On top of the woody scent was something sweet and fresh, like the flowers of spring when the sun’s first rays graced the earths at the break of dawn.

And most importantly and unbelievably, he did not reek of fear.

Certainly, Geralt could pick up a spike of that putrid stench whenever a monster would get too close to Jaskier for his comfort — _both_ their comfort — or when yet another angry husband, father, or brother furiously stormed up to him spewing vengeance and violence.

But never at Geralt. Jaskier was never afraid of Geralt.

He didn’t understand how or why. Clearly, the bard had muddled his priority of fears, or dropped on his head as a child. No one in their right mind would not fear a witcher.

Well, there was one other person.

Few things could scare Yennefer of Vengerberg. Yennefer feared no man, and she did not fear him. In fact, it was the other way around, if Geralt was being honest. But even she smelt of disquietude around him, except for when in the throes of passion in his embrace.

Jaskier’s scent never soured with him around. To Geralt’s disbelief, it grew even sweeter when he neared him. How Jaskier’s eyes would light up in unabashed delight. How his mouth would stretch into a splitting grin and words that meant simultaneously everything and nothing spill out of it ( _“Geralt! What a sight for sore eyes! You would not believe the day I had.”_ )

Never had Geralt came across someone who was happier to see a witcher.

And yet—

“— _here we are.”_

Here they were.

Geralt tried not to get too caught up with these observations. It would do him no good to dwell on something as fickle and insignificant. Human emotions were capricious. A few careful words by a silver-tongued could turn a peaceful crowd into a bloodthirsty mob. Just because Jaskier did not fear him today did not mean he wouldn’t continue to tomorrow. Geralt had learnt to keep people at arm’s length because of this.

And yet.

When they went their separate ways – Jaskier to Oxenfurt for a banquet he was cordially invited to, and Geralt to Novigrad to gather his supplies – Geralt couldn’t shake off the feeling of emptiness. The feeling that something was missing. He checked his satchels three times over to ensure he hadn’t leave anything back at the tavern. Everything was in their rightful place.

Geralt grunted in frustration, irritated for being baffled by something like this. Roach snorted like she knew the answer.

“It would be very helpful if you just tell me what I’m missing.” Geralt raised an eyebrow at her in exasperation.

Roach chose not to reveal the answer, the disobedient mare.

He sighed. “Fine. Keep your secrets.”

It was only the next morning when he realised the source of the empty feeling. The first rays of sun at the edge of horizon had peaked through the sea of trees onto his campsite. Its orange glow lulling him awake, Geralt had sucked in a deep breath.

And breathed in the fresh morning dew of spring flowers.

His entire chest swelled with languid contentment, washing away the throbbing emptiness and the haze of his sleep-fogged mind. As he regained clarity it dawned upon him that there was only one person this scent belonged to.

“…Fuck.”

It was as if Geralt had collapsed a dam. Images of Jaskier, his voice, his scent – _everything_ , just flooded into his head and Geralt had not the time to pick up the pieces to barricade himself from it all. Jaskier was all he could think of.

Geralt growled lowly, gritting his teeth.

Novigrad wasn’t that far from Oxenfurt. If he veered left of his intended course, he could head to Oxenfurt first for a detour before going to Novigrad. He could survive a bit longer without a fresh set of armour and a low supply of potions, surely.

* * *

He could not.

Because Destiny took great pleasure in shitting on his already meagre breakfast, he got spotted by a wyvern which promptly swooped down in all its glorious fury.

The fearsome creature snapped at him with its vicious teeth and flung its deadly stinger in his direction. But Geralt was faster and fiercer, and bested the wyvern after a long tedious fight.

With a brutal fight like that, he was bound to walk away with a gruesome wound or two. Such as the angry gashes on his thigh, ripped open by the wyvern’s sharp claws.

Grunting in pain, Geralt could only lay on the ground and wait for the pain to subside enough for him to stand up.

At least it would fetch for good coin, especially at Oxenfurt.

Perhaps the adrenaline of the battle and agony from his injuries still pumped furiously in him, for Geralt began to hear the soft lull of a tenor voice he would recognise even in the deafening roars of the loudest of taverns. He grunted in mild annoyance. He was nowhere near maimed sufficiently for his brain to conjure an angel to escort him from this dank world.

But then his nose picked up something else, amidst the stench of blood-stained earth.

The rich scent of wood and fragrance of spring flowers.

Geralt’s eyes snapped wide open.

“— _like morning winter, rays of gold over fresh crisp snow_ – nah, that’s a little cliché, if I’m being honest.”

Geralt wanted to laugh. Or just thrust a rude hand gesture at Destiny. First, she threw a wyvern at him, and now the bard who had all but occupied his mind and heart.

Several choice words flashed past his mind as he finally propped himself up.

“—oh, maybe I should try – _what in Melitele…?_ Geralt?!”

He grunted in reply as Jaskier sprang over in shock.

“Geralt, what on earth happened to you?”

“Wyvern.” Came the simple reply, as he waved a hand over the mangled remains of the sorry creature.

“I can see that.” Jaskier eyed the wyvern, but his gaze swiftly flitted back to Geralt. “You don’t look too pretty yourself, Geralt. Are you alright?”

It was as if Jaskier was his healing elixir. His voice washed away the pounding pain on his thigh, the thrumming ache in his overexerted muscles, the seeping exhaustion in his bones.

So naturally Geralt could only manage the eloquent reply of, “Fine.”

Jaskier’s eyes raked over his body in amusement. He was never one to squirm, but to be pinned under the bard’s gaze made his stomach coil with _something_.

“Normally I would question someone’s sanity for classifying being covered in gore, dirt, wounds and bruises as ‘fine’, but I’ll make an exception to the great White Wolf. Come on now! I’m sure you have stuff for those injuries of yours with Roach. Where’s the old girl anyway? Don’t tell her I called her old. I’d prefer my balls not kicked into my asshole, thank you very much.”

“Hm.”

“I take that as a promise. And what are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were headed to Novigrad.”

“I got side-tracked.”

Jaskier laughed brightly. “As you always do. But I suppose with your long life, you have the luxury to take a few long roads here and there.”

He strummed at his lute, testing out some tunes.

“ _So brave the Witcher be, he will make the monsters flee._

_“Who out there can best those creatures, why none other than he!”_

A jovial melody rolled off Jaskier’s tongue as he sang his praises for Geralt. Geralt had no doubt by the time they reached Oxenfurt, he would have polished it enough to premiere at the banquet.

How Jaskier could tirelessly make up positive things about Geralt, he’d never know. He supposed it was the talent of an artist, to spin beautiful ballads out of bastard truths.

If Jaskier kept singing the good traits he saw in Geralt, perhaps he would eventually believe them, one day. But not today.

“Keep singing and you’ll best those monsters yourself with your voice.”

The strumming broke into an abrupt stop as Jaskier turned to him in exaggerated indignation.

“Hey! I take offence to that, I’ll have you know! In case you have forgotten, my singing has funded our lodgings and meals many a night! So don’t go complaining about the fine-tuned quality of my marvellous singing and song-writing. Not sure if you realised, but I’ve been invited to several fanciful feasts to perform. So my talents have been held in high regard, especially by the lords and ladies with impeccable tastes!”

“Well,” Geralt grunted as they finally reached Roach, “There’s always a market for something.”

Jaskier’s incoherent spluttering tempted a smirk out of him. Which clearly did not go unnoticed, from the satisfied grin Jaskier had thrown his way.

He was always finding a way to coax some reaction out of Geralt. He supposed it was considered a great feat to evoke reactions out of emotionless witchers. Jaskier wasn’t the first. Harlots had hoped to beguile him into a state of lascivious bliss. Others had tried to goad him into rage. Like bullies to an outcast, they were finding more reason to justify their hatred towards an unknown monster.

Jaskier, however, was the first to attempt wheedling genuine happiness, or at least amusement, out of him. For no reason other than for his own delight.

Humans had always been unpredictable, but Jaskier had set up a comfortable spot for himself at the pinnacle of humanity’s whimsicality.

That image alone drew up an amused huff out of him.

From the side, Jaskier gave a sharp gasp. His eyes and mouth widened almost comically. “Was that—was that a laugh I heard from you? A _laugh_? From Geralt of Rivia?!”

“Not a laugh.” He grumbled in denial as he pulled out some bandages and the remaining of his healing salves.

“Certainly not a laugh by typical standards. But by yours, it’s a full-out bellow.”

Jaskier let out another radiant chortle. Usually Geralt would just block out the gleeful noises he made in his expense, but found that he could not do so today. Not when said noises caused his heart to squeeze in a rather strange manner.

Gods, he wondered how it had come to this. Geralt of Rivia, hopelessly defeated by a balladeer.

“Shall we then, to Oxenfurt?” Jaskier said while grinning from ear to ear, when Geralt finished tending to his injuries. “If I may assume that’s where you’re headed as well? It’s the closest city from here, and after all that red-blooded battle you’re probably in need of a good pint.”

Geralt held his gaze for a moment and took in his features. Those ice-blue eyes that held a contrasting warmth. That bright smile that was always directed at him. And that scent of wood and flower that smelled of comfort, of _home_.

As a witcher, Geralt was well-acquainted with bitterness and suffering. Was it that bad that despite knowing better, he yearned to hold onto something that countered it all?

In one swift movement, he swung up on Roach. He looked down at Jaskier, who stared up in anticipated hope.

Was it that bad that he yearned for keep that soft, gentle presence close?

Geralt reached a hand out to him. “We’ll reach Oxenfurt quicker like this.”

Jaskier’s smile stretched even wider. If Geralt thought his face already glowed with his natural radiance, he was wrong.

“Destiny is smiling upon me today, isn’t she? First, I get to reunite with your lovely broody presence, and now I get to rest my feet for the rest of the journey.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt shot him an unimpressed look.

“Alright, alright. I know, if I keep talking, you’ll leave my lonesome self here to walk instead.” He took Geralt’s hand, but the grin didn’t falter.

Roach nickered softly, earning a chuckle from the bard. “Good to see you again, my lady.”

Geralt tugged on her reigns, and they were on their way.

In that moment, sunken in the sweet hums from Jaskier and the quiet whispers of the plains, with Jaskier’s warmth soaking into Geralt’s chest, it was the closest to contentment Geralt had ever dared to hope for.

**Author's Note:**

> First contribution to the Witcher fandom, because the idea of them being hopeless pining dorks is killing me. If I don't get it out I might just implode.
> 
> It's a quick write-up, I already took up a bit of time that I'm supposed to use for my essay for this. Because I am an absolute fool with no self-control.
> 
> I promise to write something more substantial than this literary ramble when I've finished with my essay.
> 
> Your thoughts are always appreciated!


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